The First Wife. Tara Quinn Taylor

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ while he dated a lot of women, maybe because there were so many of them, Jane was the one he turned to when he needed a friend.

      He wanted to return the favor.

      She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame anyone.

      Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she should blame her creep of an ex-husband. Or the woman who’d stolen him away from her.

      Except… Lee Anne was… And James was… Jane did blame herself.

      When she could stand the internal cacophony no longer, Jane jumped up, stepping over the backpack she’d worn on the hike. She stopped a couple of feet from the ledge directly in front of them. It wasn’t a sharp drop, but it was the high point of the property. It seemed as though they were in heaven up here. At the top of the world. And for as far as she could see there was nothing but green, trees, hills, brush, grass and wildflowers. Wilderness.

      No pavement. No cars. No people.

      No subterfuge.

      Sometimes, looking into Brad’s deep brown eyes was a lot like standing there at the top of the world. They’d managed to rise above life’s complications to form a bond that was near perfect.

      He was the truest friend she’d ever had.

      “I’ve never trusted anyone like I trust you,” she blurted.

      Her career she had down pat. But not this.

      Not being emotionally vulnerable. Or out of control.

      Jane continued to survey the world. “I… This is just something I have to handle on my own.”

      “You sure about that?”

      Hell, no. She wasn’t sure about much of anything at the moment. Except that she had to be strong, had to take care of herself.

      “This is me you’re talking to, Jane. I’m on your side, remember?”

      There really was no reason to panic. She’d had a phone call. A blast from the past. Nothing that affected the woman she’d become. Nothing that affected her life today.

      And the threats—she’d hired protection for herself and her staff. The police were working diligently on that investigation.

      “Maybe I can help.” Brad was just a few feet away.

      Her only close friend. A lawyer. The best.

      “I got a call this morning.” The statement could have been random.

      “Who from?” He’d come closer.

      “A prosecutor. In Ohio. Chandler, Ohio.”

      “That’s where your ex moved after your divorce, isn’t it?”

      “Right.” It didn’t surprise her that he’d remembered a detail he’d heard only once—one night when they’d shared a bottle of wine and exchanged divorce horror stories. “James has been charged with murder. They want me to testify.”

      Two short sentences. Manageable.

      “What!” Brad turned her around, brought her back toward their blanket. His hands were surprisingly gentle on her shoulders. Odd that she’d even noticed. He’d touched her before. A hand on her back as she preceded him into the theater. Or a restaurant. And she’d never reacted. Brad meant nothing to her in the physical sense, no matter how attractive other women found him.

      “Who’d he kill?” His fingers slid from her shoulders, but the warmth of his touch lingered. “And why would they think you know anything about it?”

      Another surge of panic swept over her.

      Jane wasn’t a complete stranger to court. She volunteered at Durango, a Chicago women’s shelter, helping battered women with professional writing like letters and résumés, and helping them gain healing through personal writing, too. She’d been asked to be a supportive shoulder during domestic abuse trials several times. That was how she’d met Brad. He offered free legal advice at the same shelter.

      Jane also volunteered as a receptionist one night a week for a local Victim Witness program, a government-funded project that provided free support to victims obtaining protection orders.

      She was seasoned. The call that morning, while disturbing, shouldn’t be debilitating her.

      “They say he killed Lee Anne.” She couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the words. They just repeated themselves, again and again, in her mind.

      “My God. Lee Anne’s dead?”

      Brad sounded as though he’d known the woman, rather than just having heard about James’s second wife from Jane. She nodded. “What happened?”

      “She was found at the bottom of a cliff.” Jane shuddered, glancing back at the expanse below them. Standing atop the cliff—looking out—could seem like heaven and could quickly become hell. “Her hyoid bone was broken, which could point to strangulation, but there was no obvious bruising there. But there was some on her back.” Jane rattled off the facts as though reading a finance report. They seemed just as distant, just as impersonal. “Lee Anne apparently told a friend that she was going to meet James for lunch. But they never made it to the restaurant she’d said they were going to. Her car was found at the base of a trail leading up to the cliff. James’s truck was spotted in the same area and there were footprints his size at the cliff. Broken foliage and dirt patterns indicated a struggle. His fingerprints were found inside her car and when questioned, he’d said he was at home that morning, alone. They told him his truck had been seen near the cliff. After which he admitted to being in the woods with her, to being in her car, but he claims that they talked and that she was still sitting in her car, perfectly fine, when he left.”

      “How long ago was this?”

      “Six weeks.”

      “They’ve had enough time to go over the body, then. Did they find anything to indicate that she’d been pushed?”

      “The prosecutor, a Sheila Grant, said that the coroner found fingerprint-shaped bruising beneath the skin on her back.”

      Brad practiced family law these days, mostly representing abused women, but he’d also done a stint as a prosecutor, so he was familiar with the challenges Sheila Grant could be facing. From everything Jane had heard, he’d been a great prosecutor. And he’d been stifled by politics and people above him who were apt to seek convictions and sentences based on factors other than the severity of the crime. Especially if there was an election or a point to prove.

      A breeze blew through, rustling leaves and cooling clothes still damp from the sweat she’d worked up on their hike. Chilling her skin.

      “What exactly does Ms. Grant want from you?”

      And that’s where her throat froze up.

      “Jane?”

      “She wants me as a character reference.”

      Brad studied her from below his lowered СКАЧАТЬ